


The Wildest Largest Passions

by Laura Shapiro (laurashapiro)



Series: Leaves of Grass [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Rimming, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:58:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19299001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/Laura%20Shapiro
Summary: Crowley had thought about kissing Aziraphale fairly often. Okay, a lot. In the early days, back before the Arrangement, he’d had a number of dirty little fantasies involving tempting the angel with low-minded ideals masquerading as high-minded ones, plus a lot of slither and come hither. Crowley would come in his own hand, shuddering, imagining Aziraphale helpless beneath him. But as Crowley grew to know Aziraphale, the images didn’t fit. He didn’t want to tempt Aziraphale, not about this. And it was clear every time they met that Aziraphale would never allow their friendship to be physical. So they talked, and they argued, and they dined and drank. And, for millennia, Crowley burned.The one thing he’d never bargained for was that Aziraphale would kisshim.





	The Wildest Largest Passions

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the same series as [Bad as the Worst, Good as the Best](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19239958) and includes scenes referred to in that story, but the two can be read in any order.

Crowley never saw it coming.

Maybe he got too relaxed after the world didn’t end and Hell stopped calling. Until recently he’d never have admitted it was possible to be too relaxed. But he’d let his guard down, that was clear. Having a little too much fun, maybe. Certainly it was fun when Aziraphale said he was sorry, for the first time ever.

They were having a picnic, at Aziraphale’s insistence. They had avoided St. James’s Park due to the duck shit factor and gone all the way out to Kew. Aziraphale made a big point out of this, a special treat for Crowley, look at all the exotic plants, etc. They’d just got the contents of their hamper spread out (pâté, a baguette, grapes, a bottle of Beaujolais -- classic) and Aziraphale said, smoothing the corner of the blanket and not looking at him, “I’m sorry I said I didn’t like you.”

Crowley snorted. “You can’t be serious.”

Aziraphale looked up, his face set, mouth turned down at the corners. He fumbled with the corkscrew. “I am, Crowley. I’m sorry. It was a heartless thing to say. I am glad you knew it wasn’t true, but that doesn’t excuse me saying it.”

Crowley drank his wine. Aziraphale saying sorry was a compelling novelty, and he was going to enjoy it. “You’re right, angel. It was cruel. You cut me to my very core.”

“Well, if you’re not going to accept my apology --” Aziraphale huffed.

Aziraphale’s face was priceless. The Beaujolais was perfect, too. “I don’t know if I’ll accept it. Should I accept it? Can any apology ever be enough for such a slight?” 

Aziraphale threw a bit of bread at him. “I am trying to do the right thing."

Crowley looked at Aziraphale over his wine glass. He seemed more sad than annoyed. Crowley tossed his head and put the glass down. “Angel, you torture yourself better than I ever could. No apology is necessary. It never was. I know you like me. I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

And it was, for that day and a few days later, until the next apology came. And the next. And the next. Aziraphale had a list, evidently, of every time he felt he had disappointed Crowley and he wasn’t going to stop until he’d ticked every box. Each time, Aziraphale was more cautious in his approach but more determined to fall on his flaming sword, and Crowley found it less fun and more irritating as it went on. How could someone like Crowley want or expect apologies from an angel? The whole thing was ridiculous.

But it was a harbinger of something-or-other, and Crowley should have seen it. He didn’t. He was completely blindsided.

One moment he was wandering out of the back room of the bookshop, having nodded off while Aziraphale scribbled in his ledger. Crowley padded out yawning and reached for his sunglasses against the afternoon light slanting in through the windows. The next moment, Aziraphale was six inches away, pressing him to the wall with a firm hand on his chest, breath coming fast, pupils blown. The sunglasses slipped from Crowley’s fingers and clicked to the floor. He took a breath, and Aziraphale's petrichor scent filled his nose. "W--"

Aziraphale kissed him. _Aziraphale was kissing him_. A light pressure and then, as Crowley parted his lips in amazement, Aziraphale slipped inside. Shock and thrill did a brief battle inside Crowley before lust consumed them to ashes, and he groaned, opening wider. Aziraphale hummed in response and curled a hand in his hair. 

Crowley had thought about kissing Aziraphale fairly often. Okay, a lot. In the early days, back before the Arrangement, he’d had a number of dirty little fantasies involving tempting the angel with low-minded ideals masquerading as high-minded ones, plus a lot of slither and come hither. Crowley would come in his own hand, shuddering, imagining Aziraphale helpless beneath him. But as Crowley grew to know Aziraphale, the images didn’t fit. He didn’t want to tempt Aziraphale, not about this. And it was clear every time they met that Aziraphale would never allow their friendship to be physical. So they talked, and they argued, and they dined and drank. And, for millennia, Crowley burned.

The one thing he’d never bargained for was that Aziraphale would kiss _him_. Crowley could barely believe any of this, that it was happening, that it felt as hot as he'd always imagined -- but above all, he could not believe that the angel had _game_. Aziraphale sucked Crowley's lower lip, drew his teeth lightly along it, then slid back into his mouth to stroke Crowley's tongue with his own. Crowley ignited, tingling over every inch of himself, his cock growing heavy. Something hurt in his chest and his head was about to fly off. Don't stop, never stop, Crowley thought at Aziraphale, wrapping his arms around him and pressing their bodies together everywhere they could touch.

Aziraphale stopped. Crowley damned himself for whatever he'd done wrong, and damned everything else in a five-mile radius while he was at it. Aziraphale backed off just a few inches, looking as soft and as radiant as Crowley had ever seen him, doing that happy-and-worried thing that he did with his stupid beautiful face.

"Crowley, I --"

"Don't you dare apologize. Don't you dare say you're sorry for this." Crowley looked him dead on, made sure Aziraphale absorbed this. Aziraphale’s eyes were dark, just the thinnest blue rims showing now, and his face shone with a look Crowley had seen and dismissed many times before. Crowley couldn't bear it. He grabbed Aziraphale's hand and pressed it against the front of his trousers, and damn that felt like everything that was right with the world. No thinking, no irritating emotions, just surging heat and need. Crowley growled, "Angel, if you don't fuck me right this second I won't be responsible for the consequences."

Aziraphale swallowed, his eyes locked on Crowley's. Then he gave a quick glance around the shop, and said in a thick voice Crowley had never heard before, "Don't. Move."

The shades came down like hail, the open sign flipped closed, the door locked and bolted, and Aziraphale ground the heel of his hand into Crowley's cock. This was really happening. Aziraphale was touching him, Aziraphale was stroking him with skill and, what was more, with passion. Aziraphale was whispering little urgencies into his ear, “Mmm, Crowley, yes,” and “you taste divine” and Crowley was harder than he'd ever been in his life, throbbing, on fire. Aziraphale threw another log on, with a great sucking kiss to Crowley's throat just below the hinge of his jaw while his hand began more rhythmic movements, finding Crowley's tempo as if he'd always known it. His other hand moved back to Crowley's hair and tugged, jerking Crowley’s head back, and the almost-pain and faint nastiness of the gesture -- from Aziraphale! -- had Crowley leaking in his pants and making sounds he didn't know he could make.

He started trying to work Aziraphale's shirt buttons -- blasted tie, stupid waistcoat -- then snarled and miracled them open. Aziraphale laughed delightedly, “Yes, my dear, I feel just the same,” and went in for another round at his mouth, deep messy kisses this time, less finesse but so much want. Damn, Aziraphale was loving this as much as he was, and the pain in Crowley’s chest tightened like a hand around his heart.

Crowley's knees were trembling and he groped at Aziraphale as much to steady himself as to finally, finally get his hands on Aziraphale's earthly flesh. Light fuzz of hair, firm muscle under a welcoming layer of softness, generous nipples peaking at his touch. He could feel Aziraphale’s heart hammering, hear him gasping. Crowley’s hands were so sensitive, tingling with every stroke, the angel’s skin almost stung him, but he couldn’t get enough of it. He was bending to taste when the gorgeous pressure disappeared from his cock -- Crowley nearly whined -- and Aziraphale said into his ear, "Yes, Crowley. I will fuck you. Right this second."

Apparently Crowley's cock _could_ get harder. He somehow got himself over to the desk, taking Aziraphale's hand and towing him along. He crawled onto the desk, leaving his shirt on in a moment of indecision but tugging down his trousers and pants. Crowley gave a glance over his shoulder that he hoped was seductive but suspected was merely desperate. And waited.

Aziraphale came closer, mouth and eyes wide, looking at him like he was a pudding trolley with a particularly excellent selection. Crowley dropped his gaze as Aziraphale's hands skimmed his arse, gentle, yet sure. No hesitation at all. "Oh, my dear," he breathed, "it's not that I don't appreciate the view. But this first time, I want very much to see your face."

As Crowley toed off his shoes, kicked his trousers all the way off, and turned over, about fourteen thoughts flooded his brain. Aziraphale liked his arse, just for starters. And evidently knew how to touch it. “This first time” implied that there would be another time, maybe many other times (and in different positions). There was also the suggestion that Aziraphale had been thinking about this for a while, maybe not planning but definitely considering. Enough to know what he wanted. To have a _picture_. In his _head_. Of what he wanted it to be like when he fucked Crowley for the first time.

And oh yes. Aziraphale, for whom he had waited without hope for six thousand years, was going to fuck him now.

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hips and pulled them toward him, opening Crowley's shirt and bending to bite and suck at his nipples until Crowley felt a line of fire connecting them to the tip of his cock. Aziraphale gave this a glancing nuzzle and then pushed Crowley’s legs up and slowly began licking his arsehole. Crowley almost levitated off the desk. “Aaangh! Ah! Oh my g-- s--” The pleasure was both delicate and intense, liquid fire igniting every nerve, and Crowley could barely control his limbs. Or his mouth.

“Aziraphale, oh, oh -- ha -- oh, angel…” he blathered.

Aziraphale let him writhe for a few minutes and then, finally, unzipped his own trousers. “I shall have to remember that for later,” he smiled. He _smiled_. How could he smile at a time like this? For later rang like a faint bell in what was left of Crowley’s mind.

Aziraphale moved in for the kill, and Crowley stared at him, his heart going like a train, cock leaking all over his belly. Aziraphale, shirt and trousers open, cock in his fist, looked tenderly at Crowley. Suddenly he grabbed Crowley’s hand and laced their fingers together. Crowley had a moment of terror: _please don’t start talking about your feelings_.

“I want you so much,” Aziraphale said plainly.

 _I’m yours_ , Crowley thought helplessly. “Take me.”

Aziraphale’s expression became truly wanton for a moment, and at last, at last, Crowley felt his cock pushing him open. An easy but intense pressure, and Crowley breathed and welcomed it. Aziraphale had done something magical to slick himself up, Crowley realized gratefully, but he was still struggling a bit against the bite of Aziraphale's cock, stretching him. Aziraphale stopped where he was and took Crowley in hand, stroking slowly and firmly, moving the foreskin along in a decadent slide. Crowley moaned and bore down, and Aziraphale was inside him. They both exhaled. Then Aziraphale began to move.

For a few moments, all either of them could do was gasp with every thrust, Aziraphale starting gently and leisurely but picking up speed. “Crowley, you are -- you feel heavenly,” he gasped.

Crowley, afire, felt both the truth and the irony of this but was too far gone to say anything but “Angel,” gripping Aziraphale’s hand tighter as Aziraphale took him apart. Crowley’s cock felt enormous, swollen, ready to burst. Aziraphale was _inside_ him and he couldn’t get enough of the feel of him, huge and hard and somehow quenching even as he enflamed. Crowley’s body felt wide open now, his arse hungry and clutching with every beat as Aziraphale quickened to a galloping rhythm. Every nerve sizzling, Crowley rocked his hips, ground himself against Aziraphale, begged with his body and with his mind, _more_. He felt Aziraphale’s hand fly faster on his cock now as he fucked him harder, too good, too good, and he came like a fucking lightning strike from the hand of God. Boom, crash, total incineration.

From a distance he heard Aziraphale shouting his name, and wrenched his eyes open. Aziraphale was glowing, not just happy but literally glowing, a halo of cool white light glazing him all over as he thrust and beamed and called out “Yes! Crowley!” He drove in hard once, twice, and then he shuddered and groaned and his wings went THOOMP and showered papers and a few stray feathers all over the floor.

Aziraphale’s cock pulsed inside Crowley a few more times, and then he leaned heavily over Crowley on both arms, panting, his glow fading. Crowley panicked. This was going to be over now. He didn’t want it to be over.

“See?” he said, leaning up on his elbows. “I knew you liked me.”

Aziraphale gave a yawp of laughter and, shaking, moved to press himself against Crowley on the desk. Crowley maneuvered his legs to accommodate Aziraphale’s embrace and stifled a whimper as Aziraphale’s cock withdrew. Aziraphale put his wings away and they held one another, chests heaving. Crowley cleared away the mess with a thought.

“I do like you. I like you very much indeed.” Aziraphale kissed his cheek. It was appallingly sweet.

“I like...this,” Crowley said, gesturing vaguely at them both. “And someday you’re going to tell me how you got so infernally good at it.”

Aziraphale smiled against his neck. “Infernally good, is it? I think I like that, too. Yes, well, some of us did not sleep through most of the 19th century. Some of us...what is the expression?” He raised his head and waggled his eyebrows. “Some of us _got busy_.”

Crowley gaped at him. Images of Aziraphale frolicking at brothels and gentlemen’s clubs, the outrageous prudery and sadism of the Victorians, Aziraphale with a cane in his hands... “You...fucked your way through the 19th century and _you didn’t wake me up?_ ”

Aziraphale had the decency to look contrite. “You did seem to need your rest. And at any rate, I wasn’t at all sure where we were, then, as -- friends.” Aziraphale held his eyes for a moment and then looked down.

Crowley remembered their spat about the holy water, of course, but he also remembered what Aziraphale had done about it later. He cupped Aziraphale’s cheek and drew him into a kiss. “Always my friend.” Crowley kissed him again, this time with a little tongue.

Aziraphale moaned and returned the kiss, pressing himself against Crowley. Aziraphale was hard again, and why not? Whatever Aziraphale had learned while Crowley was looking the other way, Crowley had learned a few things, too. He bit Aziraphale’s ear and felt him shiver. Crowley smiled. He pushed Aziraphale flat on the desk and climbed on top of him, kissing him luxuriously. He would make sure that this, however long it lasted, would be worth the wait. And he would show Aziraphale what it was like to be surprised.

**Author's Note:**

> The bit about Crowley sleeping through most of the 19th century is book canon. Presumably he woke up for a few years, long enough to fret about consequences and ask Aziraphale for the holy water.
> 
> Title from “I Sing the Body Electric” by Walt Whitman: The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well.
> 
> [thingswithwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/) is once again my flawless beta. So much gratitude.
> 
> Britpicking by [juliet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliet/), with many thanks.
> 
> Shout-out to [nestra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nestra/) for the sound of wings dramatically unfurling.


End file.
